Shattered
by T'Pring
Summary: Sometimes putting the pieces back together makes you stronger. When John comes home from one of those secret and unofficial missions, Nancy knows right away that something is wrong.
1. 1992, Albuquerque, NM

_A/N: This is just a funny little backstory almost-drabble that gelled when I was working on "Skipping the Angles". I wanted to work in mention of this 'scene' from Shep's life in that story, but didn't end up needing it. So it grew a little and ended up here on its own. _

Summer, 1992 – Albuquerque, NM

There was something wrong.

Nancy could feel it the moment she opened the door into their tiny kitchen and a wave of unease hit her along with the blast of cool air. She shivered, wrote it off to coming in out of the stuffy, summer-in-New Mexico-baked garage, then flipped on the light. The fluorescent bulb flickered then glowed to full brightness with its usual obnoxious hum.

"John? Are you here?"

It was strange to have to ask – he always made a huge fuss over her when he came back from a long mission, a habit she suspected was in penance to her discontent over his leaving in the first place. His truck was in the lot but the kitchen had been dark. The living room still was. Bluish light spilled over the threshold, hiding everything beyond the sheet of its glow. There was a beat of silence that was too long, the answer when it came was too...rough.

"Yeah."

She put her keys and purse on the counter by the toaster oven and moved towards the living room. It was only a few steps, their apartment was tiny. John called it "cozy". Nancy called it "temporary". They were getting by on a 1st Lieutenant's salary and her part-time job at the university where she was also getting her graduate degree. They'd agreed not to take out student loans and were paying her way as she went. Money was tight now, but in only another year, she'd graduate, get a full-time job and John would be promoted at around the same time. They would most likely go from rags to riches within a few months, and in the meantime, she could handle "cozy".

The fixture in the kitchen flickered again, buzzed loudly for a second, then resumed its normal hum. Nancy sighed. There were times, though, when Nancy wished John would swallow his pride and take his father's offer of a townhouse on campus.

"Welcome home. I didn't know you'd be back or I'd've left earlier. Why's it so dark?"

"Because the lights are out." His voice sounded dull, lifeless, but the words at least were pure John.

"Ok, then, smart guy. Why are the lights out?" He was on the couch; she could just see the shadow of his head, backlit against the room's one small window. He didn't answer, so she reached for the lamp on the end table and twisted it to the lowest setting. John winced when the warm light flooded the room and turned his face, but not fast enough. She sank onto the cushions, unable to suppress a gasp; uncertain as to what she was more alarmed by – the bruises on John's face or the shattered fragments of their TV just opposite his favorite spot.

"Oh…_John_. What happened?"

He was still dressed in his uniform, slouched, almost sliding off the edge of the couch in a gangly sprawl. He remained determinedly studying the ceiling over his shoulder. She grabbed a beer can out of his hand, saw a bottle on the floor among the shards of the TV screen, and another two cans crowded on the opposite end table. Shock shot into high alarm.

"What happened," she demanded hearing the tremor in her voice. She wasn't asking about the TV.

"I…" he started, then just shook his head, closed his eyes.

Nancy leaned close, put her hands on his face and gently turned his head. His shoulders rose and fell as his breath quickened, but his jaw tensed under her fingers and he allowed her to look at him. There was a deep gash in his hairline above his left eye, stitched up with several loops of dark thread, but still angry red and purple along the length. The eye itself was also purple and swollen to the eyebrow. He was sucking on his bottom lip that was split above another dark bruise on the right side of his chin.

When he opened his eyes, he was trying hard to seem stern, typically stoic, but there was something in the tilt of his head, the way he was leaning into her hands, the furrow of his brow. If she hadn't been sure that this was her husband looking her in the eye – the man with more talent and bullshit than anyone she'd ever met – she would have thought he looked…terrified.

"Are you OK?" she whispered. She caressed his brow, ran her hands through his hair, her fingers aching to soothe the ache in his eyes.

"No. I'm not. I… Nancy, I don't know…" He looked at the ceiling again. The helplessness of his frustration brought a damp sting to her eyes. She didn't have any words, he couldn't give her any of his own, so she kissed him. She leaned over and touched his abused lips with hers, then pulled his head to her chest. He wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her shoulder.

She held him like that for what seemed like hours. The silence in the room was broken only by the humming light and the frantic thoughts exploding in her head like fireworks, one terrifying idea setting off another, off another, off another. He'd left a week ago for another unnamed, unannounced, "unofficial" assignment. She'd been thrilled to see his truck, anticipating welcome-home attention. The details of her imagination varied, but the one thing she was absolutely certain of was that John was frightened. What must have happened to frighten John Sheppard?

When at last he pushed away, she was watching him carefully, desperate for some clue, some hint of what was wrong. She was a little surprised when he kissed her back – hard and forceful.

"John…?"

He raised his hands to her face, kissed her again and again with frantic, hungry bites. And then he was pressing himself to her, running his hands over her shoulders and down her back. A low grunt of need growled in his throat and Nancy felt herself flooded with response. She gave herself to him, feeling her own desire fueled by horrible, aching relief.

He carried her to the bed and undressed while she watched. More bruises and scrapes were uncovered. He was usually a generous lover, but that night he took from her what he needed and then curled around her in a fierce, protective embrace.

He fell almost instantly asleep, but Nancy stayed awake for a long time, watching him breathe, raking her eyes over his lean and wiry, but abused body. She traced every cut, bruise and abrasion to make sure that none were severe. None revealed the secret of their inception.

That feeling of unease that had accosted her the moment she'd walked through the kitchen door settled into a permanent lump in her gut. She thanked every deity she could dredge up a name for that John had come home to her, she cursed every enemy and commanding officer that had taken him away in the first place. He had come home, again, (this time?), but he was…different. Something was still wrong.

"What happened?" she whispered.

* * *

The next morning John was up and gone at his usual hour. Nancy was disgusted that she'd slept through his leaving – he could be damn quiet when he wanted to be. The broken TV was gone, out on the curb by the dumpster, the fragments of glass and plastic swept up.

Her unease only grew over the next several days. John wasn't deployed again, but he was hardly home any more than when he was traveling. When he was there, he was distant and, while cordial, seemed to be ever-so-slightly avoiding her. When he came home late, smelling of smoke and beer for the second time that week, Nancy snapped.

"Damn it, John! Where the hell have you been?" She threw down the book she'd been pretending to read and stood in his way to the bedroom.

"Out."

She saw his eyes flash, but was too angry herself to care. The healing cuts and bruises on his face had turned green with age, making him look even more distressed and haggard.

"I've been worried about you for hours. A phone call would have been nice."

"I would have called if I had anything to say. I don't need _permission_ to go out," John spat then shoved past.

Nancy caught her breath, shocked at the cruelty in his tone, but she followed him to their bedroom. John began to undress, ripping off his shirt with an angry yank and then flinging it to the floor well short of the basket.

"I didn't want you to ask for permission. I wanted you to let me know where you were. We could have gone out together. At the very least, you could have just let me know you were OK. It's what people who care about each other do, John. I was worried about you." _I still am._

He suddenly stepped closer, raised a shaking finger. "Don't worry about me! Never, ever, worry about me!" he was almost yelling and Nancy felt her cheeks heat. "I can take care of myself. Better than you can imagine. You have no idea what I'm capable of! Just…back off."

Nancy considered doing just that. Considered just turning around and walking out the door. She had places to go. But she'd never run from John before, despite their fair share of heated arguments, and a year into their fledgling marriage, she wasn't going to start now.

"I won't back off. I love you, John, and you're frightening me. I need to know what's going on so I can understand. So I can…help you. I want to know what happened on that last mission." There. She'd said it. She'd addressed the elephant in the room. They were both too smart to tiptoe around the heart of the matter. Something had happened on that mission and they both knew it.

John glared, but kept silent. Then, his anger abruptly melted into something closer to anguish. The misery in John's eyes was far more frightening than the rage. She took a step closer, reached out to him, aching to hold him. He closed his eyes, turned away.

"You can't help me," he whispered. "I don't even know who _me_ is anymore." He flung himself on the bed and covered his face with his arm.

Nancy watched him for a long time, until she was almost certain he'd fallen asleep. She was too wired and upset and…scared to even consider lying down next to him, so she went to the living room and sank onto the couch in a daze. Absently she reached for the TV remote that was wedged between two cushions and had picked it up and aimed it across the room before she quite saw the empty space where the set had been.

Like the proverbial straw, the missing TV broke her and she wept – out of fear and worry for John, out of guilt when she wished she just didn't have to deal with this, out of frustration because she didn't even know what _this _was. When she finally slipped into their bed, she lay for a long time, listening to John breathe and hoping, desperately hoping, that he would come back to her and everything could be like it was before.

* * *

The next morning Nancy called Evie Chartier. Evie was the wife of John's flight commander and unofficial leader of his squadron's spouses group. Unofficial in the sense that while it was another woman who planned the social activities and did the organizational stuff, it was Evie who made it a point to invite every spouse in the squadron at least once to tea (in traditional Southern style) and it was Evie you went to if you needed to just…talk. Nancy practically still had her bridal gown on when Evie had taken her hand and welcomed her to the squadron, insisting in her soft southern drawl that she call if she 'Ev'uh needed anythin'_._

Almost as if she'd been expecting the call, Nancy found herself standing nervously at Evie's door for late coffee that very morning. Evie insisted on sitting out on the porch which she'd nurtured into a lavish, shadowy bower of green plants and potted trees, despite the New Mexico desert heat.

They chatted over their coffee and sugar cookies until Nancy began to relax a little. She'd never really gotten close to any of the other wives, although she attended the social picnics and holiday parties (when John went, too). Many were military themselves, most of the others were homemakers with kids. Nancy had plans and aspirations for herself beyond her husband's career, and kids...well, children seemed a long way off.

Even now, as nice as Evie was, Nancy wasn't there to make a friend. Evie was as "career military wife" as they came and at the age of forty-two with teenage kids, seemed impossibly old to the twenty-five year old Nancy. She was really only here for information about last week's mission. Evie's husband might have told Evie what went wrong even if hers wouldn't, Nancy reasoned.

"I haven't seen you at the spouses breakfasts lately," Evie was saying, looking over the rim of her cup.

"School and work have been really busy," Nancy excused. "I'm taking 4 hours over the summer so I can finish all the course work by end of fall term and concentrate on my thesis spring term."

"And what then?"

"After my degree? Well, with the Masters under my belt, I can get a job at above entry level and work my way up from there. I would really love to find something right away in government, but would consider corporate management."

Evie raised her eyebrows, "You? A bureaucrat? I guess I'm surprised. I didn't think anyone became a bureaucrat on purpose. Why not politics if you're interested in public service?"

It was Nancy's turn to make a face. "I'm interested in administration, not legislation. And the political jobs that are administrative require a patience and – how does one put it mildly – _tact_ that I find myself lacking to get elected."

Evie laughed along with her, then nodded with a knowing wink. "I have a habit of wagging my tongue a bit too sharply, too, sometimes. At least, that's what Chris tells me."

Nancy smiled and leaned forward, seeing the opening she'd been hoping for. "Evie, does Chris ever tell you about the missions? I don't mean the classified things," she added hastily at Evie's sudden frown, "I mean about the…other things."

"What's on your mind, Nancy?" Evie's voice was gentle, warm. She leaned back in her chair and held the cup up like she was settling in for a long, comfortable chat. Nancy took a breath, plunged in.

"I'm worried about John. Something happened on his last mission, the one they came back from last Tuesday? He's been distant and angry and…" she stopped, knowing John would hate that she was talking about him, to anyone, but especially to his commander's wife; Nancy was well aware of the politics - the ones that allowed spouses to share certain things in confidence as well as the ones that might hurt John's career. "He won't talk to me. All I know is that he's not himself and it's because of that mission. It has to be."

Evie was nodding. She fixed Nancy with a pointed look. "Did you know they lost a man last week?"

"No! I mean, I saw the articles about Sgt. Coiler...the, the training accident. John said it was an...accident..." her voice trailed off and her eyes widened in horror. "Oh, my God! Are you saying Sgt. Coiler died on that mission?" _Not an accident?_

"I'm saying no such thing," Evie retorted sternly, but her eyes told the truth. "A death can hit a squadron hard, especially a relatively small unit like ours. Shirley Hankinson was over just yesterday. April King the day before. All the guys are feeling it."

Nancy's thoughts flashed past in a dizzy whirl: John's face cut up and bruised kept flashing in her mind. Not an accident. A man had died and John had come back beat up. How close had John come to death? How close had she come to being widowed after only 13 months of marriage? Would they have told her the truth? Would she have found a soldier at her door sadly telling her that John had been killed in an accident, too? Did Coiler's wife or girlfriend or parents know the truth? Her heart clenched in overdue fear that was suddenly much more real and frightening than ever before, but she forced herself to think it through. She had to get to the bottom of it to help him, now.

"He...John didn't mention the..accident himself. I had to ask him about it. He - forgive me - he didn't sound too upset about it. He just said he'd be attending services."

"Some young men don't know how to act. Most men grow up being told not to show grief or sorrow and go along just trying to grin and bear it. Some are smart enough to let it out before it eats them up."

"Maybe that's it. Maybe that's part of it. I don't know. Like I said, he won't talk to me. But I have this...feeling that there's something else. About the mission. He came back all cut up and beat up. He's afraid of something. Could he have had a close call that scared him?" Evie was looking a little uncomfortable, but Nancy continued to press. "Did Chris say anything about John at all? Did he make a mistake? Or, or did he get in trouble with his command again?"

"No, no. Chris told me Shep got a commendation for that mission."

"He never told me that either! Evie, you've got to help me. You've got to tell me something...anything! A man died on that mission and John's a mess."

"I _never_ said Sgt. Coiler was killed on a mission that didn't officially take place. You remember that, Nancy Sheppard." Evie's rebuke was sharp.

Nancy held her tongue and Evie went on, more gently. "We're not meant to know everything. We never will. We do our best with what we've got and sometimes two and two make four. (_like the "accident", Nancy thought_) Sometimes it adds up to six and three-quarters and we have to just accept that. The sooner you find your peace with it, the better off you and John will both be."

"This is not about me."

"But it is, sweetheart. John's young, but Chris says he's the best pilot he's seen come through the program in years. He also says that if John can learn to keep his mouth and his temper on a leash, he's destined for bigger things. Scarier things. Most likely more secrets and more danger. You married more than a man, you married a career, a way of life."

"I...know who John is. It's what I love about him. He wants to save the world. He's passionate and impulsive and hotheaded. And that's why I can't...stand it when he's hurting. I can't stand to watch him withdraw."

"You can't fix it for him."

"But if I understood - "

"It would made you feel better."

"Of course."

"So it is about you." Evie's smirk was softened by not a little amusement. Nancy could see that, but she was still angry. It was a truth she didn't want to hear. It wasn't what she'd come for.

"I just want to help John," Nancy said, folding her cloth napkin and tidying up her place, signaling her intentions to go.

"Give him some time. Trust him. That's how you can help. He'll work things out on his own."

"And what if he doesn't?"

"Then there are other honorable careers."

Nancy's breath caught, surprised at the casual dismissal of a man's dream. And then she was surprised at her own guilty pleasure in the idea. John with a job that didn't involve leaving for days, weeks-even, at a time. A job that didn't keep her awake at night in terror that he wouldn't come home at all...

"Thank you for the coffee, Evie," Nancy said, rising to tug the straps of her purse over her shoulder. She paused, saw Evie watching her with an expression that had gone all wise and sympathetic again. "And thank you for the advice. I'm - I know I've got a lot to figure out. John and I have a lot to figure out."

Evie nodded and Nancy couldn't help but think she looked sad, too. Sad for Nancy. Evie rose to walk her to the steps. At the end of the front sidewalk, Evie took her by the shoulders and gave her a quick, cheek-to-cheek hug.

"Chis is watching out for him," she said in a whisper, looking a little guilty. "Shep's one of Chris's favorites although I'm definitely not supposed to say that so don't you go blabbing that around, not even to John. I wasn't surprised you called. I can tell when Chris is worried about people, even though he can't tell me why or exactly who. John's name has come up a few times this week. Two plus two..."

"What happened?" It was almost a plea.

"The squadron takes care of its own. John's not alone."

_I'm supposed to take care of him_, was what Nancy thought, but she just hugged Evie back, repeated her thank you and got into her car. As she drove to campus, she rolled over what she'd learned in her head. 1. A man had died on the same mission that was bothering John. Evie believed that was enough to account for John's behavior, but Nancy didn't think so. Not entirely. 2. Evie also believed that she should stop asking questions and just play the dutiful soldier's wife. That was a harder pill to swallow. She wasn't the type to let issues smolder until they caught fire, she took them head on and solved them. But she couldn't do it if nobody would tell her what the damn problem actually was!

When she pulled into the parking lot, she was more confused and frustrated than ever. She leaned her head against her hands on the steering wheel and closed her eyes. She scoured the conversation in her mind looking for any hints Evie might have dropped. John's flight commander was also worried, so at least Nancy wasn't imagining that something was wrong. She wanted to explore that idea further, she wanted to puzzle out some obscure deeper meaning out of Evie's words that would shine a light on what, exactly, was wrong.

But no matter how hard she tried, all she heard was the soft tinkle of Evie's windchimes as she sipped coffee and told Nancy that John's future lay in even more danger and more secrets. The unease that had taken hold of her the moment she'd walked into their kitchen days ago settled into a permanent compartment in her soul. Even if John snapped out of his despair and everything went back to the way it had been, it wouldn't be the same for Nancy. The squadron took care of their own. John would work it out on his own. And Nancy would be alone. She beat her fists against the steering wheel until the thumps vibrated through the dashboard and into her feet.

3. Nancy Sheppard had learned that being a soldier's wife was far, far harder than she'd ever imagined. Not because she couldn't handle it...because she wasn't supposed to.

* * *

Evie was stuffing the dirty napkins into the coffee cups when Chris came bounding up the porch steps and grabbed her around the waist in a ferocious bear-hug.

"Where's my lunch, woman?" he bellowed, his own southern accent more pronounced when he was teasing.

"In the refrigerator, waiting for you to order it onto your own damn plate, Major." Evie retorted as she always did. Chris guffawed like he'd never heard the joke before and helped her carry the dirty dishes into the kitchen. He began rummaging in the fridge while Evie put the dishes in the dishwasher.

"Was that Shep's wife I passed driving in?" he asked when he'd stacked three jars of condiments and a pile of ziplocs stuffed with ham and deli cheese into his arms. Evie smiled. Chris never missed anything.

"Nancy." He was also terrible at names, even if he could remember the make and model of every person's and their spouse's car in his flight.

"What's up with Nancy?" Chris's question was casual, but he stiffened a bit and Evie recognized that he was paying a lot more attention than he was pretending.

"That's classified," she teased. When Chris frowned instead of laughing at the long-standing joke, she added hastily, "Same as Shirley and April. She's worried about her husband. Since last week."

"Uh," Chris grunted, then concentrated on making his sandwich in silence for a little while. Evie sat down next to him at the breakfast bar and stole bits of cheese from his plate. "What did you tell her?" he asked finally around a giant bite.

"In Nancy's case, I told her to back off and give John time."

"Good advice. Shep's the pouty type. Gets things off his chest through his fists…and mouth. Had to dress him down already today. I don't need her pushing his buttons at home, too."

Evie sighed. "Good advice, but hard for her to hear. Nancy doesn't let things go...easily."

Chris chortled until Evie's puzzled glare prompted an explanation out of him. "Shep's a hardheaded little prick, too. They're a cute couple. Sounds like a good match." Evie stayed silent. Chris raised an eyebrow, gave her his full attention. "Really?" He sounded genuinely surprised.

"Really. Special ops is going to drive her crazy and that's what John is meant for...according to his flight commander." She poked Chris in the ribs who was still chewing thoughtfully. "I don't think she'll be able to handle the uncertainty. I give them until he makes Captain and lands his first serious command."

"That's a damn shame. They sort of remind me of us when we were first married."

"_We_ almost didn't make it through 1st Lieutenant," she reminded, but squeezed his arm to let him know she wasn't dredging up the past in bitterness. He kissed her on the forehead.

"I wish you were wrong about this stuff more often. Shep's a good kid, but a little messed up. Hate to seem him go through that, too."

"Me, too." Evie agreed softly. She'd given up her career in counseling to use her skills among her peers who needed them the most and were among the most unlikely to seek it. She was satisfied with her contribution to the greater good. But there were times when she hated not being able to help more. "Me, too."

* * *

That night was Nancy's late night at her university job and John was already asleep when she got home. That suited Nancy. She'd talked to the other women whom Evie had mentioned and still had no more clues about what had happened, but each of them had repeated Evie's admonition to give John time. And they, like Evie, were certain that it was the death in the unit that was upsetting him. Their husbands had told them that much at least.

She'd also learned one other tiny little detail from April King: whatever John had done to earn his commendation had impressed the hell out of the other men in the flight. April had told Nancy in no uncertain terms that she owed John for her husband's life and wouldn't soon forget it. It was one of those "two plus two" things, April had no more detail than any of them, but April had added it up. The praise softened Nancy's resentment, but confused her more about what might be weighing so heavily on John's mind if he'd done so well on the mission.

When she crawled into the bed, mentally and physically exhausted, John grunted in his sleep, rolled over and curled around her, burrowing into her neck with a sleepy sigh. At least she could comfort him in his sleep, she thought, not entirely discontented.

Then next morning, John nudged her awake and she rolled to find him dressed and shaved and smelling of her favorite cologne. He was holding his hanging bag that covered his dress uniform.

"Services for Sgt. Coiler are this afternoon at 4:30. Chapel on base. I'll change at the office. Do you want to come?"

Nancy blinked sleep out of her eyes and sat up quickly. "Yes! I do want to come. Thank you, John. Thank you for reminding me." She was too sleepy to sound intelligent, but she was really grateful he'd thought to make the invitation. John nodded, his expression solemn, but somehow less…distant.

"You brought him up," he answered with a shrug. "I'll meet you at the chapel."

"Ok."

Nancy arrived early and ended up sitting with April King and a couple of the other women she knew from the unit. John and the rest of the flight sat or stood together, looking magnificent in their dress uniforms. Chris Chartier made a statement and the service finished with the solemn gravity it deserved.

To Nancy's delight, they went out to dinner with the Chartiers and several of the other couples from the flight. She was even more pleased, and touched, when Chris picked up the dinner bill and bought the first round of drinks. John seemed almost himself among his colleagues and buddies from the unit. Nancy found herself watching him talk and joke and bullshit, daring for a moment to hope that things were returning to normal.

When the other couples left, John and Nancy hung out watching some laughable rerun of an ancient college football game on the TV over the bar. They joked and laughed and made fun of the 1970s uniforms and hairstyles until the hour was late. When the bartender at the restaurant bar started shooting them dirty looks, John heaved her to her feet, hooked his arm through hers and drove her home. She'd left her car at the base to ride together to dinner and would have to go in early tomorrow with John to pick it up, but it was worth it to sit next to him in his truck and lean against his shoulder.

"Did you know Sgt. Coiler well?" she murmured, thinking about the funeral. Maybe she had been wrong, maybe it was Coiler's death that was bothering John. He seemed calmer tonight, his hand on her knee, his face relaxed as flickers of streetlight passed over his face as he drove.

"Not really. He wasn't in my team."

"Through the whole funeral I couldn't help imagining myself the one sitting there in the family row. All the wives were thinking it, you could tell." John stiffened, but Nancy was lost in her feelings from the moment. "It's one thing to know, intellectually, that your work is dangerous, that what you do – whatever that is – could get you…killed, but to see the consequences up close -"

"Don't, Nancy." John snapped, interrupting her quiet musings with an angry snap. "Just don't."

Nancy bristled. "I'm just trying to tell you how much you mean to me. If I lost you –."

"You won't."

"You can't know that. Nobody can, really. Coiler wasn't even in combat. He died right here in New Mexico on a practice flight." She knew it was a lie, but the lie proved her point rather well. She fell silent, watched the stoplight they were at turn green. John punched the accelerator, jerking them against the seat a little. His hand wasn't on her knee anymore, but gripping the wheel in a white-knuckled clench.

The lights were on night interrupt so they hit a red light almost immediately. John slammed on the brakes harder than needed to stop. The rush that washed over her was more powerful than before, having dared to relax, dared to hope it was better. He was still angry, wound tight. She bit her lip, feeling his tension seep into her side. She was too worn down to do anything but sit there and fight back tears of frustration.

"Coiler shouldn't have died," John said at last, surprising her. His voice was gruff and anguished. She held her breath and after the light turned green, he took another deep breath. "He made a mistake. It wasn't…it wasn't his fault he was in the wrong position to start with, but," John's face went hard and Nancy could feel him shuddering against her shoulder, "he didn't have what it takes to –." He broke off abruptly.

"Takes to what?" she whispered, afraid he would snap at her, afraid saying even that much would push him away again.

"To survive. To make it home."

"I don't care about Coiler or anyone else. I need _you _to come home. Do you have what it takes to come home?"

"Yes," he breathed in answer, then added, his voice low, nervous, "that's what scares me."

Nancy closed her eyes and rested her cheek on John's shoulder. She just didn't understand, anything, anymore. But for the moment, the only thing she could think to do was lean on him and wonder why he could be afraid of coming home.

It was late when they got back to the apartment. John dropped her in front of the door then drove down the lot looking for a parking spot. His truck didn't fit in the tiny garage even when her car wasn't there. Her feet were killing her from walking on base and hanging at the restaurant in her dress shoes, and she just wanted to fall into bed and sleep for a week. She fumbled with the keys, yawned, finally shoved the right one into the lock.

It was dark in the apartment, but she didn't bother turning on the overhead lights. She just flipped on the lamp at the end of the couch and mechanically walked to the kitchen to put her purse where she'd see it in the morning. A very early morning, she remembered and groaned to herself out loud.

She lifted the bag to plop it on the counter by the toaster oven and hesitated when she realized the door into the garage was open. Had she left it ajar when she left this morning?

"I'll take that," growled a voice behind her.

Nancy startled and yelped. Her purse was yanked out of her grasp before a hard, bruising hand grabbed her arm and spun her around.

"Oh god!" she screamed, cringing from the large, unfamiliar man holding her. He raised a gun with the hand that didn't have a grip on her arm and a cold dread froze her stiff. "Please, you can have the purse, you can have whatever you want…just don't…don't hurt me."

"I want the good stuff. I haven't got crap out of here. Not even a goddam TV. Show me where the good stuff is." He was half shouting and he shook her to emphasize every phrase.

"Ok! Ok… I'll show you. Whatever you want. I'll show you!"

"That's right. Whatever I want!" the thief repeated with a manic chortle. He jerked her in front of him, twisted her arm behind her back and pressed the gun to her head. She almost collapsed from fear. A stomach-churning smell of cigarette smoke, booze, and bad hygiene drifted over her shoulder as the man leaned close and pressed his lips against her ear. "You're a pretty lady, aren't you? You'll show me what I want."

"My…my husband is coming. He's parking the car. Take what you want and then get out of our house. I don't care about the stuff, just go. Go." She heard the words like they were from someone else, breathless and small. She just wanted him to leave and a tiny part of her mind that remained rational, even in the throes of terror, reasoned that the man might go if he knew there was someone else on the way.

"I don't got crap out of here, yet, bitch!" the robber screamed and yanked her hair. "Show me the stuff, or I put a hole in you!"

"Please! Oh, god, please don't hurt me," Nancy began to sob.

"Where the stuff! Where the shit, bitch?" The robber was shaking her and yanking on her hair and kept jamming the point of his gun into her head and then shoulders. He kept screaming at her until she wanted to scream herself, until she was certain he'd kill her before John or anyone else could get to her.

"Let her go," came another voice, this time from in front of her. It was so hard and cold, she didn't recognize it as John's until she opened her eyes from being screwed up in fear and saw his slim form outlined against the warm lamplight from the living room. He was still holding his dress uniform jacket in one hand and the sleeves on his blue dress shirt were rolled up, looking for all the world like he was talking to a buddy from the base.

"Fuck you!" shouted the robber and flung his arm at John. The gun fired and Nancy screamed. Something shattered on the far side of the living room.

"John!"

"I said, let her go."

Nancy's heart started again when she realized that John had spun neatly out of the path of the bullet and was moving even closer, past the threshold into the kitchen. Nancy could feel the robber twitching with indecision and muttering curses behind her, his hand still hard on her arm, but he didn't shoot again. John raised his hands.

"Let her go and you can walk out."

"Shut the fuck up. Just shut up."

"Let. Her. Go."

Nancy shuddered as John took another step closer. There was no fear on his face. How the hell could he look so calm, so…dangerous when he was the one at the wrong end of the gun? Why was she afraid of John all of a sudden when all he was doing was looking at them? Apparently, the robber was also thrown. It sent him over the edge.

"Get the hell away! Fuck you to fucking hell!" The panicked intruder shoved Nancy to the floor who fell gratefully at his feet. She cringed away as the man continued to stomp, wave his arms, and curse. "How the fuck do I get out of this? How the hell do I get out of this?" He was screaming.

John inched closer, one hand stretched out to her, his eyes never leaving the robber's face. She thought, for a single, hopeful instant, the crazy guy was going to run when he spun in a tight, manic circle and took a step towards the garage. A sudden wild anger flashed over his face, instead. Nancy didn't have time to cry out, or even blink, when he raised his gun, pointed it at her and went stiff as a statue. For a split second, she was certain she was going to die. She could see in the man's face the decision he'd made.

In the second fraction of that same second, John had lunged, grabbed the man's arm, slammed it into their tiny dinette table. The gun smacked the veneer with a crack almost as loud as the gunshot itself. With a subtle shift of his feet, John next twisted the man's hand behind his back and shoved him, head first, into the china cabinet that was built into the wall between the fridge and the living room.

Glass shattered. Dishes smashed and tumbled off the shelves. The crazed robber screamed, but this time in pain. John yanked, him out of the cabinet, setting off fresh howls of agony as he was scraped back across jagged glass. One more vicious shove and John had thrown him again, this time into the hard wood door of the kitchen pantry. The robber slumped to the floor and curled into a ball, twitching and moaning.

John bent to pick up the gun from where it had fallen to the floor. With one arm, he held the gun steady on the prone burglar, with the other, he dropped to one knee and scooped Nancy to his chest. She melted into his tight embrace and felt herself begin to shudder. Great sobs tore from her throat.

From somewhere beyond the eerie silence that fell over the dim kitchen, the wail of sirens grew steadily louder.


	2. Present Day, Annandale, VA

**Present Day – Annandale, VA**

"Oh my God, Nancy, that sounds horrible. How did you ever get over being held hostage like that!"

Nancy rolled her eyes at her sister-in-law, Kim, and shrugged in what she hoped was a careless way. "I wasn't held _hostage_. The guy was high on something. We startled him robbing our apartment and he went crazy." She took a swig from the beer bottle she was holding, slick with condensation from the muggy, summer evening. Only the large shady tree over her back deck and a breeze made it tolerable to sit outside at all.

Kim was younger and blonde and a bit more solid than Nancy. She hadn't found a topic she wasn't comfortable with, so far, in Nancy's presence. But despite the woman's chatty candor, Nancy liked her brother, Andy's, wife. They'd become quite good friends in their years of family reunions and annual visits to the D.C. area. She was sharp as a tack, and generally directed her curiosity to the good.

"But the going crazy part! He had a gun! If your ex hadn't been an Air Force kung fu guy…" she trailed off, her eyes still wide.

"John probably saved our lives that night," Nancy agreed softly.

"How did you ever sleep again in that place?"

"I never did. John took me to a hotel the first night, and we stayed at guest housing on base for a week until his father could set us up in a townhouse by the university where I was finishing my masters."

"Your ex's father put you up in a townhouse…just like that? Why were you living in a seedy apartment in the first place?"

Nancy felt a tickle of annoyance that she quickly squashed. Kim didn't know any better and things had been…complicated back then. "John didn't want to live off his father's money. He wanted to support himself. _We_ wanted to support ourselves," she added the last hastily. Kim made a rude noise.

"Shit, forget that. I'd take a free room any day."

"I did love that townhouse. It was beautiful and safe. I could walk to classes. John hated every second of living there, though. It represented loss of independence to him. He hated having to ask his father for anything. He only did then because of me. He swallowed his pride for me and that made me love the place even more. John's father let me stay in the townhouse for years, even after we separated."

She fell quiet, thinking about that time in her life for the first time in a while. It had been months since Patrick Sheppard's funeral. She hadn't seen John since. When she did think about him, she only started to worry and made herself stop. Kim was studying her with that look that said she'd be asking another question soon, as soon as she figured out how to go about it. Nancy almost grinned. She could guess the question.

"So, tell me about your Air Force guy." Nancy shot a nervous look at the house and Kim just leaned closer and waved the concern away, "Andy's keeping Grant busy in the kitchen. I've always wanted to ask you why you broke up. Andy showed me a couple of pictures of John from back then. He was such a cutie. And damn, that uniform! I wouldn't kick that out of bed for eating crackers if you know what I mean!"

"It was the uniform I couldn't compete with."

"Oh. Macho man? Misogynist tough guy?"

"No! Oh, God no! John was, _is_, a great guy. He just had a higher calling. He wanted the adventure, excitement and a chance to save the world. I wanted to have dinner at home with my husband once and a while."

Kim was looking at her with an amused glare. "There has to be more to it than that. I like Grant and all, but seriously…" Kim waggled her eyebrows and Nancy laughed.

"There was more to it." She fell thoughtful for a moment. "Things were never the same after that night, honestly. I remember…John had been wrestling with something at work – I never found out what – and after that night it was like he'd made peace with what had been bothering him, but, he wasn't quite the same man. He'd always had a temper, got in trouble with his command about it all the time, too. Afterwards, he wasn't nearly as hotheaded. He wouldn't argue anymore. When we got in a fight, he'd bottle it up and walk away."

"That doesn't sound entirely bad?"

"No, not exactly. I think what I came to hate was how little of his life he would or could share with me. He was gone all the time on secret missions he couldn't talk about. I learned that he was a very repressed man, he never shared his feelings or fears and worries. Once he bottled up his temper, he never let anything out, ever. He…never let me help him. Eventually I felt more like a roommate than a wife and I had to leave."

"It got that bad?"

Nancy looked away. She couldn't meet Kim's curious eagerness. "It was the hardest thing I've ever done. I still loved him. Hell, our whole problem was that I wanted _more _of him than he could give me. But he wouldn't leave or alter his career and I couldn't live like that. We were both getting more and more resentful every day. I had to leave before we were both so broken that _neither_ of us would have been able to put the pieces back together."

"That's the saddest story I've ever heard!"

"Well, don't feel sorry for us. Grant's wonderful and wonderful to me. I'm very happy with my career and life right now."

"And John?"

Nancy stared at her beer bottle for a long time. "I hurt him, I know that." She took a long swig, finishing up the last of the drink. She swallowed hard. "He's still got his adventure."

Andy and Grant chose that moment to clatter out of the house to present the girls with fancy, frozen mixed drinks. Nancy soon shook off the odd melancholy that had taken hold of her as she talked and joked with her brother, but she caught Kim shooting her thoughtful looks for the rest of the evening.

That night as she drifted to sleep next to Grant, she wondered, for the first time in a really long time, about the mission that had scared John the same week they'd been robbed. Telling the story to Kim had resurfaced some of the frustration of realizing that she would never be a part of that side of John's life. With the softening of time, she remembered more the fear in his eyes. It was fear he'd conquered, mostly. She wondered if he'd told her – been able to tell her – about it, if things would have been different. She wondered if she would have been able to find more sympathy and patience within herself if she'd known more about what he'd been afraid of, then and other times.

But he hadn't. And she didn't know. And now, she never would.


	3. What Happened Atlantis, 3rd Year

**What Happened – Atlantis, 3rd Year**

"Sheppard!"

John hesitated on the threshold to the infirmary after the mandatory post-mission checkup and just almost kept walking. He had a really good idea what McKay was going to say and…he didn't want to deal with it. Not now. He was beat up and beat down. He wanted a nap and a shower – in that order.

"John, please. Wait up."

_Damn. He said please._ "What do you want, Rodney?" John let his answer sound as gruff and unwelcoming as he felt. He knew McKay needed to talk. _Shoot me in the head._ He wanted McKay to hear that now was not the time.

"What happened on 657. The ambush. All those people."

"There were six of them, Rodney. Six against four. And they weren't people, they were mercenaries, enemies. They were trying to kill us because they didn't get the memo that Kolya's dead and can't make good on his bounty offer."

McKay was shaking his head. John knew it wasn't the facts he was rejecting. It wasn't the facts he wanted to hear, even though it was what he needed to hear.

"But I… But when we… I should have –."

"You did what you had to do, Rodney. Never forget that."

John tried the line that would have worked for any other soldier and wasn't surprised when it didn't work at all on McKay.

"But maybe there could have been something I missed. I keep going over the ambush in my head looking for something I should have done…differently." Rodney trailed off, looking desperate and pathetic. He was slumped with exhaustion and yet vibrating with nervous energy. He kept wringing his hands and wiping them on his jacket without even realizing the repetitive motion. He was heading towards FUBAR, and as his team leader (and yes, friend, dammit) John was the one to who'd have to pull him from the edge. Again.

John sighed, fighting his own exhaustion, and went for compromise.

"Go clean up. Sleep if you can. If you can't, come by. We'll…talk." He managed to force out the offer with only a small cringe.

"I could just – " Rodney pounced.

"Shower _first_. And rest." He knew the latter was hopeless, but if John had any luck in the universe, Rodney would find something else to obsess about and get distracted long enough for John to convince his body it didn't really need to arrange a complete physical breakdown.

As it turned out, John was pulling Touch and Go's over his laptop an hour later when the chime to his door bonged softly for attention. For a moment, John just stared at his hands, wallowing in the dread and then he heaved himself to his feet, snatched for his jacket and stood at the door only long enough to palm it open and wave Rodney in.

He was at the fridge, pulling out a six-pack before McKay even got as far as slouching through the door.

"Let's go to the pier. Do you need a jacket? You can borrow my sweater. It's clean. Sort of."

He threw the jacket at McKay and was back out of his door, leading him through the quiet, evening halls of Atlantis before Rodney had a chance to say more than, "Oh. Ok." John knew it was a cop out. A delay. An excuse to distract himself from the uncomfortable moment with scenery. On the other hand, it was the only way he was going to make it through the conversation without shooting himself or McKay, so he wasn't above stacking the deck in his favor.

It took another fifteen minutes for McKay to work up his courage on the pier, which was fifteen minutes and two beers longer than John would have had back in his room. The night was, gratefully, spectacular. The moon here looked larger than the one back home, and was more craggy. John had spent some serious time out here naming and mapping the craters, mountain ranges and mares. And unlike Earth's moon, this one rotated out of sync with its home planet to show different faces in fascinating combinations. Tonight it was rising out of the ocean with an almost pumpkin orange cast, setting the gentle waves on fire with sparks of firey reflection.

"Did I do the right thing, John?" Rodney asked softly at last. John sighed, wondering if he could sidle around the topic enough to satisfy McKay. Direct just didn't work with a guy as smart as Rodney. You had to convince, cajole, provide evidence. So he didn't answer the question with the _you're sitting here, alive, aren't you, dumbass?_ that he really wanted to say.

"I had this instructor once. We were doing basic hand to hand combat training and most of us were stick jockeys who never planned to hit the ground and weren't taking it very seriously. One guy mouthed off *cough, ahem* and the instructor told us to choose someone to try to take him down."

"You?"

"Hell no! I was skinny, about half the weight of the instructor. That, and I made it a habit to start things without planning to finish them back then, AANCH."

"AA-what?"

"All Afterburner, No Compass Heading." Rodney chortled appreciatively. He was enjoying the story. John took another gulp of his beer. "No, we sent out this huge guy who'd also been bragging about doing martial arts his whole life."

"Let me guess. The instructor made short work of him."

"No. The instructor killed him."

"Excuse me?"

"Not literally. They danced around the mats for a bit. Our guy managed to get the instructor down and was about to pin him when he rolled, grabbed for a knife that had been lying just off the mats from knife practice and slit our guy's throat." John grinned at Rodney's shocked look. "It was a rubber knife, for practice. But if it had been real…"

"So, your point is…?"

John just went on. "We were pretty impressed, but someone *cough, ahem* pointed out that we were learning hand to hand and that, technically, the instructor had gone down so what exactly were we supposed to learn from him?"

"You didn't!"

"Yeah, well, AA -."

"NCH. What did the instructor do?"

"He called me to the mat, gave me the knife and said the same thing: try to take him down."

"Let me guess again. This time the instructor made short work of you."

"No. He shot me." Rodney stared, pulled a face until he was convinced John wasn't making it up, then just waved a resigned hand for him to continue. "I knew he could take me down easy, so I thought I'd cheat like he had. I danced on the mat for about ten seconds then cocked the knife to throw it at him. I'd gotten pretty good at that trick at the bar. I was sure he'd never see it coming and I'd have the last laugh."

"Ha, ha, on you."

"No kidding. I'd lifted my hand about as far as my shoulder when the instructor reached inside his padded suit, pulled out an M11 and fired at my chest." John raised his arm as if to throw a phantom knife as he spoke, then pantomimed grabbing for his heart. Rodney just raised an eyebrow so John shrugged. "The gun was loaded with blanks. Didn't harm a hair on my scrawny butt, but it made a hell of a bang and scared the hell out of me for about ten seconds until I realized I wasn't dead."

"So this guy taught you that the bigger weapon wins?"

"No. When I'd started breathing again, he put us back in line and chewed us new ones. He told us that his job wasn't to teach us fancy fighting tricks, his job was to keep us alive. That out there, when someone is trying to kill you, you have to use every skill, weapon, instinct and lucky toss at your disposal. You have to do _whatever it takes_ to stay alive. And then he mopped the mats up with us for six more weeks."

Rodney had caught on and his face went skeptical. His jaw worked, but for once, he didn't seem to know what to say. John looked at the water below his dangling feet.

"Rodney," he started softly, "It's never easy to take another life. It's even harder when you have to do it the way you did today. But you're alive because you did. And you'd be dead if you didn't."

"So, survival of the fittest justifies all, is that it? I'm supposed to feel better about blowing another human being's face off just because I wanted to live more than that guy wanted to kill me?"

John looked him in the face. "Yes."

Rodney shook his head in frustration, then pulled the jacket around himself as if chilled, but it wasn't from cold. "I don't know, John. It's one thing to know, intellectually, that if I hadn't pulled the trigger when I fell on my back that thug would have shot me first. It's a whole other thing to see the consequences of, of, _that _and realize I was the one, that I could do –."

"You're still a good person, Rodney. The fact that you care proves that. We all hit the wall at one point or another and question our own…humanity. I'm honestly surprised it's taken this long for you to hit yours."

"Because I'm your civilian flunky who cringes behind Soldier Sheppard and Conan without taking any of the real risks?"

"No. Because you're tougher than I thought."

"Oh."

They both fell silent, Rodney had gone all thoughtful. A good sign.

"When did you hit your wall?" 

_Or not._ John rolled his head and fought down the snap that would have pushed the question – and Rodney – away from him like a drone on autopilot. "Sheesh, McKay," he whispered, begging with body language for him to let it go.

"It would really help me to understand how you deal with it."

"How I deal with being a cold-blooded, soulless killer?" This time the snap got out before John could force it down. He popped a third can and gulped at the foaming liquid, feeling it burn his throat as it slid into a warm haze in his stomach.

"No, um. How you manage to stay such a…normal guy doing what you do for a living. It's not guilt that I killed a mercenary in self-defense. It's knowing I'm _capable_ of doing that, that I'm the kind of person who will resort to unspeakable violence to save my own ass that's scaring me. I just reacted. I didn't think about taking a life or the consequences or alternatives. I just really didn't want to die. What if, next time, I kill someone unnecessarily? What if… what if –."

"What if you hurt someone you love?" John finished softly.

"Yes! Exactly! I feel like I'm a loose cannon all of a sudden. Like I've turned something on that I can't turn off."

"Like turning on a vacuum energy weapon and waiting for it to blow up the solar system?"

"Funny. And completely uncalled for, by the way. Distraught friend spilling his guts here."

"That's why it's called for."

"But you… I mean, how do _you_ turn it off?"

"I don't. You can't. You just keep it under control as best you can. You know it's there when you need it. And you hope to hell you don't. Like anything, it gets easier with practice and experience."

"But you feel that way too? Like you're afraid of yourself? Like you don't know yourself anymore?"

"I did at first." Rodney seemed to be sorting things out on his own and all John had to do was express empathy. The man was more touchy-feely than any woman, but in this case, it seemed to be working out for the best.

"So, when did it first bother you?"

John sighed, realizing Rodney wasn't going to give it up. "1992. I was pulling Special Ops. My flight took a mission to extract a political defector from…hostile territory. My Blackhawk took fire and we went down behind the line. My wingman managed to get me and the rest of my crew out, but we had to fight our way from the crash site to the other ship."

"You hit the ground after all."

"Exactly. It wasn't until that mission that my instructor's lesson sunk in, permanently. The border troops were on us like flies on roadkill. It got real bad, real fast. We were outnumbered and outgunned. A sergeant from my wingman's crew was killed leading us to the landing site. He locked up when a squad rushed us, attempting live capture, which could NOT happen. He panicked and Kamikaze'd on a grenade. He gave up too soon. He went out well, took three other hostiles with him, but it was stupid. I ordered hand to hand and the rest of us fought our way to the rescue ship with knives and, in one case, a well aimed rock."

"You took out a squad of soldiers with knives and rocks?" Rodney's jaw hung open in awe. John hated the flicker of fear in the incredulous expression.

"Sgt. King got one with a stick, too. They'd been told to take us alive. We were out of ammunition. They didn't expect us to put up that much of a fight, and didn't know how to stop us without killing us, which would have pissed off their chain of command. They were confused and just disorganized enough that we got away."

John shot Rodney a nervous look. "I was pretty freaked out."

"I'm freaked out now, just hearing about it."

"It wasn't the close call. It was…what I did to escape." Rodney opened his mouth a few times, then apparently decided not to ask exactly what he'd done. John blew out a breath in relief.

"So, what did you do afterwards?"

"Well, I acted out like an ass for about a week before…something happened and I realized that even if I was a monster, I could use it for good. I could use it to protect someone I loved."

Rodney favored him with a curious stare at his choice of phrase, but, again, didn't press. John gulped the rest of the can and suddenly felt so sleepy, he had to put a hand on the deck beside him and scrubbed his eyes with the other.

"You're a good person, too, John." Rodney blurted suddenly. Now who was comforting who? But Rodney at least sounded more like himself. And he'd said "too". Mission accomplished.

"Great. We're all good people."

"A little messed up, maybe. But good."

"Definitely screwed up. Comes with the territory." John yawned.

"I've kept you up. I'm sorry."

"S'Ok. That comes with the territory, too. Besides, the Beer Mug Mare only comes around every sixty days or so," John flung an arm at the moon that had escaped the horizon and was glowing, nearly full, with almost chalky white light. "The dark, flat spot on the lower left quadrant. Looks like a beer mug with cracks?" he elaborated at Rodney's raised eyebrow.

"You named a mare basalt after a broken beer mug?"

"Cracked. Not broken."

"There's a difference?"

"Absolutely."

Rodney raised his can and toasted the moon. "To 'cracked, not broken', then."

John grinned. Rodney got it. He lifted his own can.

"To 'Cracked, not broken.'"

Fini


End file.
